Another lesson on being attentive

My son stops cold each time we pass a face of a missing child. He has for some time. I don't recall the first photo he asked about, but I recall the panic I experienced the first time he asked about a missing child. How could I explain to him that other children have just gone missing? Even trying to explain required that I consider the traumatic reality that he could be the one missing. Explaining at any level sparked his realization that he lives in a world where kids like him go missing. The walls we build to block out potential trauma in our lives are torn down answering questions like these.

Gabe finds these photos everywhere. The pizza place has a missing child's face on a candy bin where you can drop in a quarter and get a tootsie roll. A similar notice and candy bin is at my hairdressers. The milk cartons. The signs in the grocery store. Everywhere. Too many lost children.

I walk past these pictures most often without even noticing. I've built strong walls; it's easier to be numb than to ponder the depth of such deep losses. Gabe asks few questions when he sees these notices now. I could learn something from his ability to just live with the questions. He simply stops and looks with a deep compassion at each photo. He notices the age when the child has gone missing. He calculates how old the child is today. When we go to our regular places...he heads toward the notices he has seen many times before.

One time Gabe looked at a notice and said, "Mom, this one is still missing". I was struck by my own lack of hope that a missing child would ever be found and yet it was his sincere expectation. Another time he said "look mom....she was found!" and sure enough, there was a notice that a formerly missing child had been found. That's why these notices are around...because in some cases they work. They work because people notice and believe in hope against hope.

Gabe gives these deep losses and amazing occasions for celebration the attention they are due. He pays attention to loss, to joy, to reality, to miracles. And to his lead, I intend to pay attention.

Being Attentive

Today I drove a 1988 BMW convertible. Its historical place obvious in its design. I noticed immediately the bright red line at 55 on the speedometer and the absence of cup holders. The German engineers, I was told, held out a long time before including cup holders in their designs. They firmly believed driving to be its own work....the automobile deserves its rightful attention. I try to imagine a time when driving was about the journey not the destination.

There is no red line on my Accord speedometer, and the days of 55 as the limit for speed are largely gone. We not only have cup holders in our vehicles but also but thermal coffee mugs designed to fit them. The BMW engineers finally capitulated to the market....putting holders in the cars against their will. (The good guys don’t often win when the driving force is consumerism).

Driving is now something that “happens” while we consume a value meal on the way to soccer practice. For longer drives, our vehicles are equipped with DVD players so children can pass the time on the road rather than giving the journey its due.

The reality is we spend most of our lives journeying...far more than we do arriving. We even, sadly, construct our lives in a manner that ignores the significance of the journey. We celebrate the new job but not the multitude of opportunities to grow in our current work. We dance at the wedding but neglect to celebrate the daily milestones that make up a marriage.

Those German engineers were on to something. Life is its own work and deserving of our full attention.

Agent of Rescue

Mary Karr, in the third memoir of her personal narrative trilogy titled Lit, credits her son with saving her life. She was on the path to personal destruction...depression, alcoholism...and the image of her son's life in light of her choices caused her to change. She's apologetic for the pain she caused him on her path to healing, saying, "because of you, I couldn't die and couldn't monster myself, either. So you were the agent of my rescue--not a good job for somebody three feet tall." (p. 5). Her son, dev, was "barely four" when Karr's marriage and mental health simultaneously unraveled. Yes, being the agent of a parent's rescue is no job for a pre-schooler...or anyone.

And yet, I know exactly what that means....for "agent of rescue" fits perfectly the situation with my own son. My young hero, also about 4 at the time at the time of my divorce, was the source of my survival, my motivation for choosing grace over bitterness. Even now I understand why bitterness is the more prevalent route. Motherhood reminded me why the tougher road mattered; without him, I imagine grace may not have won the day.

And it is Gabe, now 9 1/2, who continues to be the agent of my rescue. Divorce is not a clean equation when it comes to forgiveness. There is no once and done; the wrongs just keep comin. Even wrongs contained in the past take on new significance in light of the present. I choose grace because that's what's good for Gabe, and that goodness reflects back on my own healing and renewal.

Maybe it's not so bad for a child to be the agent of a parent's rescue. I'm not suggesting that parents place the weight of the world on their children's shoulders. I am suggesting that we give credit where credit is due...even to pint-size packages. In this life, the fullness of God's truth comes to us in unexpected ways...the upside-down kingdom is at work, and sometimes a little child shall lead them.